You put a terrible connotation on the word home. 

You made me hate the idea of a home, 

I was so convinced that it was only found in you.

How is it a home if I wish I never touched it?  

How can I call you a home if I wish I never loved it?

A home is a place of comfort

but my entire being cringes when I think of you. 

It was never about the broken parts of a home,

the dirty hinges,

the cracked floor boards,

the unmade beds. 

They never mattered to me.

I seemed to enjoy walking into your arms

as if the door was left open. 

This is what broke me.

You. 

You evicted me from my own home. 

You left me homeless 

and now my roof is caved in. 

My floors crack, 

the fire place is out of wood.

All because of you, 

my broken home.